


This Magical World

by NeoVenus22



Category: Gemma Doyle Trilogy
Genre: Multi, Sexual Situations
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-18
Updated: 2009-12-18
Packaged: 2017-10-04 14:06:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,686
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/31042
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NeoVenus22/pseuds/NeoVenus22
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Gemma's life is far from perfect.</p>
            </blockquote>





	This Magical World

_I think about you often, and with great fondness_, I confess in my latest missive to Felicity. I sign it, _Ever your humble servant, the Lady Carstairs_, and laugh at the overt sentimentality contained within. How many times was the student body cautioned on the necessity of restraint? Instead, I've rambled for pages on the state of my marriage, only barely concealing my displeasure at the whole arrangement. Felicity will no doubt see right through my thin guise, but there's a part of me that's hoping she will. Hoping that there's still a chance, however remote, of rescue.

My husband, Lord Atherton Carstairs, is rarely in, having to deal with politics and other such things. He's a pleasant man, handsome, and not unkind. He's also a bit boring. But he's wealthy, and since for once in my wretched life I've brought no shame to the family, I'm willing to make do. My existence is calm, and without the troubles plaguing my youth. Yet I feel trapped in this body, in this life, in the lap of luxury, in the agony of a blur of identical days.

I'm wallowing in boredom, having exhausted all of my paint supplies on a series of views of the garden from the master bedroom, and have to wait for my lord to bring me more. In the meantime, I've taken to retiring to the library, and flipping through both sensational novels and historical drivel. Neither subject seems to quite scratch my itch, but there's little else for me to do. Past that, I've been visiting the kitchen and making friends with the cook. It goes against all I've been taught in regards to propriety and status, but then, there's no one around to scold me, and I keep my distance with the lord of the manor is home. Cooking is one of the skills never impressed upon us at Spence, and Allegra has been generous enough to share her wealth of knowledge with me. I've gotten actually very good, and at our last shared dinner, my husband praised Allegra for the succulence of his ham, unaware it was actually my doing.

The days pass, blending into each other like paints, a mad palette of books and recipes and long walks through the garden. A letter from Felicity comes, without fail, in the last week of every month. I tear into the newest one with a hunger that stretches far beyond the bounds of my earthly self. It's as though this void in me is stretching to other realms, and Felicity's letter is a tiny plug into the dam of my emptiness.

It's filled with amusing anecdotes, succinct at their very best, about shiny new acquisitions for her home, or parties she's attended and the people there. Mrs. Nightwing would have been beside herself at the overall dull formality of the letter, the impersonal sort of drivel we as ladies are expected to pen. Felicity is not beyond adding her own touches, however. _You think about me often, do you?_ she asks, in a bout of classic Felicity. _Are they Sapphic thoughts? Perhaps you should warn the good Lord Carstairs of your affliction._ I giggle madly, glad that at least we were able to retain a little of who we once were. Even if it is watered down with age, experience, and breeding.

I am in the midst of tucking Felicity's letter with the others, hidden in the pages of a book on the dusty top shelf in the library, when our housekeeper, Sally, comes in to inform me of Atherton's return. I nod my thanks, straighten my skirt, and go to greet him in the bedroom. It's unconventional for mid-day dalliances, and no doubt scandalous, but Atherton is quite desperate for children, and quite lacking in free time. My current inability to conceive an heir is what leads us to this loveless reunion the times he bothers to tear himself away from council. Once I'm a plump mother-to-be, his duty is fulfilled, and he will sit back and let the servants handle my cravings. I enjoy the prospect of a built-in excuse to spurn his advances, but not at the expense of what little freedom I have remaining.

I find myself maliciously wishing for a daughter, to throw a cog in Atherton's (and Tom's) plans. A girl, with all of Pippa's beauty, Felicity's voraciousness, and Ann's talent, with none of their shortcomings.

_Think of England_, I remind myself as I lie back and he angles his body over mine. He is heavy, but warm, and not altogether unpleasant. I have only ever heard the phrase said in jest, never by anyone who meant it as actual advice. Atherton slides my thighs apart with an accompanying grunt.

_Think of England, think of England, think of England_. I run the statement through my mind on a loop, trying to think of any possible instance where I might have heard it said in earnest. I wander back to Spence, to the hallways with their high ceilings, and the echoing clomp of Brigid's shoes. I travel outside to the gardens, weaving in and out of the bright flowers, treading on the lush lawn, with birds swooping overhead. I come to the dock, where Felicity sits, as young and shining as ever, hands dawdling over a piece of embroidery. When I lean closer, I discover she's scripted out a lewd joke. I press my fingers to my lips to silence my laughter, for fear we get caught. Felicity smirks at me wickedly.

It's not a vision I fall into as I lie in this massive bed with my husband between my legs. It is a vacation, a sweet travel back in time when my mind was open and poised to learn. I have since then learned too much and not enough. I feel stagnant, and not just here in this bed.

In my perfect Spence, there is no Mrs. Nightwing lurking to lecture us on our unseemly behavior. There is no Brigid to bore. There are no visions to spark my fear. There is no Gypsy camp to entice us, only each other. The only limitations are our own imaginations. Knowing us, it will certainly be awhile before we run out of ideas.

There are no other girls to distract us, to vie for our attention, in this selfish world of mine. Felicity grabs my hand and we take off at a run, winding through the woods, hiding in the stale heat of the caves. We're not chased by any threat, it's merely a game. Still, we press ourselves to the walls, heaving with giddy breath, and hush each other in elaborate stage whispers, as though we are actually hiding. It's not long before we fall victim to exuberant laughter.

A drip of sweat from Atherton's brow falls splat into the hollow of my throat. With a flash, Felicity and I have abandoned the caves and are now darting through Spence's halls, making the manor our own. Felicity takes perch on Mademoiselle LeFarge's desk and patiently lectures me on my atrocious pronunciation, all the while calling me 'Genna.' From there, we relocate to the art room, where we paint ladies from the parties we've attended, and trade secrets about them. It's the happiest I've been in ages.

Without warning, Felicity rises from her chair and comes over to mine. She extracts the paintbrush from my grip, and uses it to paint a delicate line across my forehead. The paint is cool against my flushed skin, and does not drip or run, a neat mark that I've been branded. Before I have the chance to question it, Felicity lowers her mouth to mine, and all questions flee my mind.

I am not thinking of England, I'm thinking of Felicity, and her lips on mine. It's a place they'd been many times before, but there's something else to this kiss, something both more and less than friendship. Whatever it is, it carries weight to it, promise, and the taste of something forbidden. My body arches upwards involuntarily, and if Atherton has noticed the change in my demeanor, he says nothing, just continues to push his body to a rhythm only he hears. I follow a different one entirely, my rising pulse, the anxious beats of my heart, the trail of Felicity's delicate fingers over my shoulders and breasts.

Her fingers, which have delicately flipped the pages of a book and then later torn them apart in irritation, are now causing havoc on me, as they trail lower and lower down my body. Her hands dip between my thighs, where Atherton's own hands have never dared to venture, and I'm beginning to see colors.

Atherton stills finally, his ragged breath signaling completion, and my cue to once again pay attention to my surroundings. He removes himself from me, and I press my lips tightly together, my fingers curled into fists, trying not to show the hot pleasure consuming my body. He smooths my skirt over my lap, and his hand lingers at my pelvis, at the warm heat leftover from his presence. I greedily imagine his touch as Felicity's. His patient smile is replaced by my friend's knowing look.

I exaggerate about the loneliness of our encounters. I am the only one that truly feels that way, perhaps because I resent him from taking me away from a life with which I was finally feeling comfortable. In truth, I'm never lacking for affection when Atherton is around, and this occasion is no exception. He fondly tucks a tray lock of hair behind my ears and softly murmurs, 'My love.' I smile at him tiredly, and avert my eyes when he stands to button his shirt and put on his trousers. I am still lying prone when he exits the room. He has never treated me without kindness or respect, and guilt plagues me down to the bones when I discover that I will never honestly return his affection. I will never be able to call him my love. I realize, perhaps too late, that role has since been filled.


End file.
